


a happiness without strings

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Period clothing, anon asked for it so they shall recieve, canon who is she, haha i know nothing about fashion, my beta didn't read this >:), no soup mentions at least, sweet soft and lily can't stop talking about the master, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: TARDIS fam tries on period clothes. The Doctor finds herself unable to focus on anything. Yaz is upset.
Relationships: The Doctor/Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	a happiness without strings

To the Doctor, everything was period clothes.

Everything but the orange robes she’d grown up in, gold and glimmering and stitched with Circular. And those felt out of place on her these days, especially with things being the way they were.

But Yaz and Ryan and Graham had gasped at the big-bustled 1870s dresses and fine waistcoats she kept in the TARDIS costume room, and the Doctor had been itching to try on a dress now that she had new bits, so she let them put new clothes on to take a jaunt around in England. 

The Doctor’s dress was green and gold, a little bit like a peacock tail, and was decorated around the top with brightly colored ruffles enticingly brushing the bottom of her throat. The Master would like it, she thought. She wasn’t used to wearing a corset, and although she could breathe all right, it was uncomfortably tight around her waist. 

“Ready?” said Yaz. The Doctor spun and saw Yaz, dressed in a blue dress with a hoop skirt, dark hair drawn against her neck.

“You look beautiful, Miss Khan.”

Yaz curtsied. “You look beautiful, too, Miss Doctor.” 

The Doctor giggled. “Miss Khan. Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, Ryan and Graham keep complaining about how hungry they are,” said Yaz, one of her delicate hands playing with the satin of her skirt. “So. Dinner sounds great, if it’ll shut the guys up.”

“We could go ourselves.”

“Don’t think that’ll shut the guys up,” said Yaz.

The Doctor considered this. “We’ll have to keep it quiet, then.” She stepped forward so her hand was cradling Yaz’s cheek, so she could see the small parting of the other woman’s lips as a release of air filtered out, so she could see the tiny widening of her eyelids and the slight flush of her skin. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” said Yaz.

The Doctor laughed. Something about Yaz made her feel so buoyant, so light. A happiness without strings and busy complications — it almost seemed too good to be true, which, in the Doctor’s experience, usually meant it was. So the Doctor tried to keep quiet and stop doing silly, impulsive things.

The silly, impulsive thing that was fluttering around in her head right now was _kiss her,_ which she was doing her best to quash. She took a sudden step away from Yaz, yanking her hand away from the girl’s face. “We’re leaving.”

“Okay?”

“Now. Let’s go.” 

“No. Doctor, you can’t just do that and leave. Doctor!” called Yaz, as the Doctor, determined, set off towards the door. “You get back here!”

The Doctor turned on her heels, which set off a whole rustling-fabric spinny motion with her large skirt, and crossed her arms. “What is it, Miss Khan?”

“Yaz.”

“What is it, Yaz?”

“Stop playing around with me. You’re too old for this. Aren’t you ancient?”

The Doctor pursed her lips. “It’s actually quite rude to ask a lady her age, Miss Khan —”

“Aren’t you?”

She uncrossed her arms and crossed them again, to give herself something to do. “Yes. I’m ancient.”

“So stop acting like a twelve-year-old, then, and actually do something.”

“No!” said the Doctor, aware of how petulant she sounded. “You don’t understand everything, Yaz, things have come up, and…”

“It’s him, isn’t it.”

The Doctor blinked. “Who?”

“The Master. It’s him. He’s throwing you off, I can tell. You’ve got some sort of history with him, he _said_ you went way back.” 

“He’s not throwing me off! We haven’t got a history. He’s nobody.”

“He doesn’t have to be nobody.”

“I want him to be nobody, Yaz.”

Yaz stepped towards her and carefully, so softly the Doctor barely felt it, slipped her hands into the Doctor’s. “I like you, Doctor. But you don’t have to like me.”

“I do, though.”

“Okay! That’s okay, too. You — I mean —”

The Doctor took a deep, steadying breath, and kissed her. The Doctor was good at kissing; she’d had years and years and years of practice, with friends and lovers and enemies and strangers and queens. She knew what made a good kiss and what made a bad kiss.

This was a good one. 

Yaz broke away with a shallow gasp of breath. “Do you not need to breathe?”

“Uh. A little.”

She laughed. “You’re good at that.”

“I know.”

The sound of applause suddenly burst from behind the Doctor, and she pulled her hands from Yaz’s. Graham and Ryan, wearing waistcoats and top hats, were laughing and clapping in the doorway. 

“Hey!” said the Doctor. “Shut up.”

“Took you long enough,” Ryan muttered, and the Doctor had half a mind to stomp over and hit him across the arm. 

“No comments. No clapping. _No whistling_ ,” The Doctor said, and then brightened again. “Who wants to go to dinner in the nineteenth century?”


End file.
